The Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree

As you can plainly see, there is a Huckleberry Bush living at the top of this Snag. (A Snag, as you might know, is a (mostly) dead tree, often missing a top or many if not all of its branches, and serving to support many forest creatures with a place to live or something to eat, as is their wont). It could be easily mistaken for a Decomposing Log, as the sign below explains, but we think the principle difference is in the degree of Verticality, Decomposing Logs being more of a horizontal inclination. For the mathematically-minded, we believe this relationship between Snags and Decomposing Logs could be usefully expressed as an equation, to wit: S = DL + V, or DL = S - V.

Anyhow, we find it particularly gratifying that in the Northwest Woods even Decomposing Logs have their Day in the Sun, at least insofar as a plaque recognizing their services is such.



By the way, the moment when we recognized that a Snag is actually a Decomposing Log standing upright was an epiphany nearly on the order of the moment when we recognized that "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star," "Baa-Baa Black Sheep," and "The Alphabet Song" are the exact same melody. How, for nearly half a century, we did not realize that before we cannot say. It reminds us once again how easily desensitized to the Extraordinary we all too often are, and serves to urge us to approach each experience as if it were a new and quite surprising moment. (Although that latter may be why we never saw the connection before this. Hmm, now what do we recommend?)

But to return, this particular Huckleberry Bush thought he was absolutely the Cat’s Pajamas. (Regrettably, we are not sure of the derivation of this phrase, nor can we say with confidence it is a good metaphor. We do, however, very much like the vision below of a particularly high-struttin' feline, and quite imagine the Huckleberry Bush imagines himself equally dashing.)



In a word (not that we have ever limited ourselves to that) the Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree clearly believed he was quite above all other huckleberry bushes, and certainly by virtue of his great height alone he had reason to believe that was true. Other huckleberry bushes in the Northwest Woods grow to be about the height of an average (rather tall) adult person, but this huckleberry bush loomed over even other bona fide trees, and thus convinced himself that he was no ordinary bush: he was a... Tree.

This fact, however, brought him very little joy. It did occur to him that for all his impressive presence his life was quite lonely. Furthermore, he did not have the distinct impression that other huckleberry bushes looked up to him with any appreciable deference or recognition. Even if they had, it would not have been altogether that much consolation in either the best or worst of times, because who wants to be Fabulously Admired but Altogether Alone?

His hubris and his sadness were such that we felt obliged finally, after much discussion among ourselves, to inform him that in fact he was not a tree, and was only towering in his present state owing to the devoted service of the snag beneath him (who, evidently, had “snagged” an errant seed or berry at some point which grew to be the Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree).

It is to the Huckleberry Bush’s credit that rather than being dismayed to discover he was not, nor ever would be, a Legitimate Tree, he was instead greatly cheered by this disclosure. What a coup, he exclaimed, to have landed on that snag. What a gracious offering for such a noble tree as the snag had once been! The Huckleberry Bush Who Thought He Was a Tree was suddenly filled with over-flowing gratitude toward the snag. The snag, in turn, felt deeply gratified to have been, at long last, acknowledged for its service (beyond the requisite plaque, as above, and the standard watch offered upon retirement).

As it happens, to be thought Other Than One Truly Is, no matter how flattering the attributions, can be seriously demoralizing in its own right. Far better, we believe, to face and accept the limitations of one's competencies and to acknowledge gratitude for those whose lives we share.

The Knobbly Tree

The Knobbly Tree started out with one or two bumps, but before long the bumps appeared to have run amok. There were bumps up the front, and bumps down the back, and bumps on the sides, and in every way he was undeniably, knobbly, and quite different from the other trees in the Northwest Woods.

This difference was not lost on the surrounding trees, some of whom took to what we can only describe as a mean-spirited approach to the encroaching knobblies. They were heard to make any number of disparaging remarks to the Knobbly Tree, and certain other of the more Sensitive Souls began to worry about the effect on him.

Worried unnecessarily, as it turns out. Knobbly Tree never, ever took offense, but seemed, merely, curious. Oh, you don’t like my knobblies, do you? he would ask in surprise. It seems to upset you an awful lot if something is in the least bit different, he concluded, sympathetically. Is there anything I can do to make you feel better? he would solicitously inquire. No matter what the others said, Knobbly Tree never responded in kind, and never seemed to feel in the least bit diminished by the teasing.

The teasing, of course, eventually stopped, because no one had a reasonable answer for Knobbly Tree’s gentle inquiries, and Knobbly Tree grew and flourished in the Northwest Woods.

The Cross Your Fingers Tree

When one of us was a young girl (and, now that we think about it, only one of us could have been, issues of species and gender being what they are) declarations of truthfulness could be vouchsafed by swearing, “Cross my heart and hope the devil plucks my eye out.”

This seems to us now in its consequence to be a trifle Draconian (which phrase, now that we think about it, is a bit of an oxymoron). It isn’t having one’s eye plucked out that is so disorienting (although we can't imagine we would enjoy it), but claiming to hope it occurs that confounds us.

And just what do we mean by Draconian? We are so pleased that you asked. Draconian, as it happens, refers to an ancient Greek lawgiver who advocated the punishment of death for violations of just about any law whatsoever. Since his name means "dragon" in Greek, we think that adds an interesting twist to the contemporary association between lawyers and sharks. We are guessing the only worse thing than being compared to a shark is to be compared to a dragon, and for the former association we now have considerable appreciation. Injury is always relative.

Draco is also a reference to a lovely constellation, as shown below.



But where were we? Ah, yes: promising to tell the truth or risk a Cyclopean outcome.

Very well, then. I will explain. Cyclops was a Greek monster with one (very large) eye in the middle of his forehead (a singularly disagreeable feature, if you ask us, and we will spare you any visual representations since we have yet to find one we could view without requiring the presence of Karma the Beloved Dog beside us).

Oops. We stand corrected. We are gratified to note that it is possible to order kits that permit one to knit both a Medusa and a Cyclops, as shown below.



It is our opinion that there is nothing like knitting away one's monsters (drawing, painting, and sculpting are equally reassuring), and if we were in possession of a single useful domestic skill, we might well have attempted to knit one of the above, but our knitting needles have been put to better use as hair pins.

We do think it is particularly interesting that, while we feel considerable repugnance for a single eye, the notion of a third eye is much-esteemed.

You might be gratified to learn that you and everyone else you know has access to the third, or inner eye, which is that aspect of ourselves that allows us to see and hear in the deepest sort of way. This capacity, we believe, greatly facilitates any communication with presences that are otherwise disinclined (or anatomically unable) to communicate in the usual fashions.

We think the third eye is pictured very sweetly in the illustration below.



We are further gratified to note that those with sun-sensitive eyes need not risk damage to their third eyes, thanks to the (fairly improbable, but true) offer of the sunglasses below.



Finally, although for most of us access to our third eye is best achieved as a mental and spiritual exercise, for those of a more literal bent the following might be of interest.



While it is true that, as a necklace, it is not precisely situated where the third eye is usefully believed to be, it nevertheless serves the purpose of reminding one of its use.

Well, we are quite certain we were making a point, and the knitting needles, while clearly pointed, seem not to have helped at all. Ah, yes: we were discussing the strategies of truth-telling by avowing the very puzzling offer of having our eyes plucked out, on our way to the Cross Your Fingers Tree.

It is a common notion, derived, we have learned, from sixteenth-century England, that a wish is facilitated by crossing one's fingers. Paradoxically enough (to our great delight), crossing one's fingers is also a way to, um, dissimulate, if one were so inclined (we do prefer that term so much more than lie, which sounds, actually, like the very transgression it is). So if, for instance, one merely wanted to appear to be telling the truth, while not entirely doing so, all one needed to do was cross one's fingers (preferably behind one's back, where they couldn't be seen).

In our day this lent for some fairly demanding cross-examinations in certain circumstances when trust was at issue, and many an argument ensued once it was determined there was a slip ‘twixt the hand and the lip, necessitating either a full circuit of the pledging person or a deft transfer of the betraying hand. Those with more prehensile toes and a looser shoe could sometimes be found to have crossed toes, but as a general rule that was a defense less to be suspected for your average adversary.

By the way, we rather think these shoes might have done quite well with the above objective in mind and a couple of toes of the prehensile variety.



In any event, you can then perhaps thus imagine our constellation (we may mean consternation) when we came across the Cross Your Fingers Tree. Is it offering the promise of a wish come true, or pretending to promise and boldly declaring its deception?

We do believe as a general rule it is wise to be suspect of any promise, per se (unless, of course, you yourself are in a position to effect that outcome).

We have learned, however, that there is one wish the Cross Your Fingers Tree can happily agree to. If you stand before it and ask, "May I accept what is," you will most certainly discover it has been granted, by the very effort of your appeal.

The Two-Dimensional Tree

Most trees are round, as you know, and thus in possession of a full three dimensions, although sometimes when trees are very old they might appear more stodgy and oblong and sometimes even square (a fate befalling most of us over thirty). But in the main, your average tree is round, or at least round-ish, and most of us do come ‘round when discussing the all-around virtues of being… well, you know, well-rounded. (We don’t know about you, but we are getting dizzy, what with all this roundabouting.)

In the Northwest Woods, however, there is a Two-Dimensional Tree. It is utterly flat, quite like your basic 2x4 board with a couple of short, scrappy branches perched on the top. We haven’t a clue what happened to the third dimension. It simply isn’t there, and we have instead only a board standing upright with a couple of branches on top, as you can see from the above photograph.

These branches have a few spotty, rusted, and (to be painfully frank) bedraggled leaves. Admittedly this kind of leaf appears to be the fate of many a Madrone tree in the Northwest Woods, and perhaps all Madrones everywhere (not having been there we’re not entirely certain). Unlike other Madrones, however, the Two-Dimensional Tree never grows any new branches, or appears to add any leaves. By early springtime it looks so impossibly moribund that each year we are certain it is "curtains" for the Two-Dimensional Tree, which seems rather inevitable for a tree so sorely lacking in the usual dimensions.



We think the Two-Dimensional Tree is very much like certain shallow people we know who think rather highly of themselves and rather less of us. These are the sorts we regard as deeply superficial, and it is wise to know when one has found oneself in the inadvertent company of such a sort.

In other more enlightened moments, however, we think the Two-Dimensional Tree is a lesson in Narrow-Mindedness. When we find ourselves thinking in a Too This-or-That, Black-or-White, Either-Or Way we remind ourselves how little complexity is therein allowed.

And now that we think about it, quite like those deeply superficial sorts (see above) we too have our moments of a Patronizing Air, or Untoward Judgment, or a Not-Well-Considered Response, and we stand in fond hope that these occasional lapses will be duly noted, and thoroughly overlooked (which latter, truly, should easily be the case in particular with shortcomings).

This is perhaps why we seem to take such delight in early summer when, against all odds, the Two-Dimensional Tree begins to shed its wretched, brittle, spotty, rusty, mordant leaves and replace them with fresh, shiny, new, green ones. It’s back again this year, we say happily. It’s still around!

That latter, of course, is not entirely accurate, what with its Dimensional Challenge, but here it might be finally advised to Bite One's Tongue, in the interests of not being the very sort we earlier disclaimed.

Addendum. As it happens, were one in need of reminder to do the above, one need look no further than Bags That Bite, handmade bags that "can replace your normal non-biting handbag, or function as a special occasions bag." Although we are having some difficulty imagining just what those occasions might be, we must admit we rather like the handbag below.

The Glum Tree

The Glum tree, as perhaps you can see, does have considerable reason to be glum. First of all, he appears to be only half a tree, and not the more flattering half, we regret to note. (Although how he could have been only the upper half is subject to some debate.)

In any event, being the (admittedly) less-attractive half, he is utterly without branches, or leaves, and is thus quite short, which is often a frustration in itself. You can see from his expression that he is not at all happy with his condition, although there are surely other trees quite like him of a more salutary disposition if he would only just look around.

In an effort to cheer him up, we have regularly placed small branches of huckleberry and spruce and cedar upon his head, hoping thereby to give him a semblance of hearty flourishing, or in the very least, a hint of a full head of leaves, which in some circles is regarded as a desirable thing. However, no matter what we do, his expression never changes. We’ve tried adding berries, and feathers, and moss, as you see below. We have punked him out with zany twigs and fanciful sticks, as you see above. We’ve stood and talked with him for minutes at a time, trying to jolly him out of his funk, but he is impervious to our efforts.



Perhaps it's simply a matter of the Right Hat. Perhaps what the Glum Tree needs is a topper of a more dignified nature, such as Kaiser Wilhelm II's hat below.



As it happens, Kaiser Wilhelm II was such a thoughtless, unkind fellow capable of such brutal sentiments (the details of which we will spare you, since even bad press is more press than he deserves, but which include the deforestation of his entire estate) that we don't entirely regret his evident infelicity. The illustration below offers the most vivid expression of how he was popularly regarded.



Glum sorts of that order simply are not deserving of our ministrations, and should be prepared to be made sport of, but the Glum Tree is of a very different type.

Sometimes all you can do with a tree like that is just wish him well. To be sure, we will keep refreshing his “head,” adding the occasional branch or moss as we pass, but we have at last concluded if he is ever to be happier, he will have to change his expression.

The Insect World, Being Largely Limited to the Tale of an Errant Bumblebee,

(Title above, continued): Prevailed upon for the Occasion of Commemorating and Dramatizing a (Possible) Forebear Found Bouncing on a Blackberry Blossom, But Not Exclusive of Some Serious Considerations Regarding the Fate of Anthills

About the insect world in the Northwest Woods there is very little, ahem, to write, we regret to say, perhaps owing to that very size consideration in all but the most Intimidating of insect species (all of whom, we dare hope, live on Faraway Continents in remote destinations we cannot imagine Karma the Beloved Dog might feel compelled to visit, such as the Parque Chipinque in Monterrey, Mexico, below).



However, that does not explain the fact that one of us once spent her entire lunch break trying to extricate and restore to flying condition an all-but-infinitesimal gnat that had misguidedly landed in her blueberry yoghurt. What the lesson was in that we can only guess. We think it has something to do with not eating blueberry yoghurt outdoors on patios adjacent to one’s workplace, although for obvious reasons we find it difficult to believe there is any universal applicability to that particular insight.

Which may ultimately be true, we hasten to acknowledge, of the following report (although we are nonetheless compelled to tell the story).

It began one day nearly exactly a year ago when, in our passage through the virtual thickets of blackberry bushes (the non-native kind) which grace our Northwest Woods (we may mean infest), our eye was suddenly caught by the unexpected oscillations of a blackberry blossom, which we quickly realized was owing to the presence of a Bumblebee on one of the petals. To the untutored eye it looked quite like the dear bee was using the petal as a bit of a trampoline, which we found both memorable and amusing. As we did not have our camera on hand, we did not photograph the event, but instead commemorated it with the following (sort of) haiku:

Blackberry blossom 

lightly bounces

as Bumblebee alights.

Now (to this more recent occasion nearly exactly a year later) we were particularly conscientious about proceeding on our path at Mallard’s Landing, our reserve largely owing to the ant metropolises that seem to have sprung up determinedly yet again this year. Because of this avid attention to where we placed our feet (although one of us was certainly a tad more oblivious, and we think you know whom we mean) it will come as no surprise that we shortly espied a Bumblebee on the path.

This would ordinarily lead us to proceed with caution, but we quickly concluded that this particular bumblebee was going Nowhere Fast. He appeared to move in the general direction of the right side of the path, and his little wings were flapping wildly, but he could not seem to navigate the twigs or leaves in his path, and he certainly wasn’t producing an airborne effect.

Once the immediate path before him was cleared of twigs and leaves, etc., he simply spun about in largish circles as if he were very much disoriented by the abrupt removal of what apparently were Significant Landmarks. It was at this point we realized we had on our hands (as it were, though not advisable in the literal sense) a Bumblebee in Distress, unable to escort himself off the path, and very likely to be flattened by the next passer-by.

Well, we are nothing if not helpful, and using a tiny stick we edged him onto a leaf, to which he clung gratefully (or so it appeared), and set him down on the side of the path in whose direction he seemed to be heading, where we fondly hoped he would find sustenance and safe haven, if not some first aid assistance. We then continued on our way, aiming to take photographs of the rush of blackberry blossoms as evidence of the Northwest Woods’ (rather slim, we do feel) selection of flora of a flowery sort.



Four photographs later (only one of which we have included above, since they all look exactly the same despite the different angles from which we took them) we recalled the moment in the year previous of the bumblebee bouncing on the blackberry blossom, and we wished (again) we had had our camera at that time, although we remembered (again) how unlikely it would have been anyhow to successfully capture the occasion, what with the general disinclination of insects to do what they’re asked, and their evident impulsiveness. It was at that moment that a light bulb went off in one of our heads. Aha! we thought. Why, we could create a repeat performance of that charming moment in a dramatic (though admittedly staged) performance employing the services of the Bumblebee we just met and rescued, who, regrettably (but fortuitously), wasn’t in a position to take flight without notice. Moreover, was probably right where we left it.

If only we could remember where that was.

Well, we retraced our steps, peering closely along the side of the path, and sure enough, there he was, stumbling about the leaves and twigs (still rather aimlessly, we thought) and seeming to be willing enough to play the role we sought. There was a bit of a setback trying to pick him up since we were (wisely, we think) aware that he, though Unable to Fly, might nonetheless still have the Capacity to Sting. As it happens he still evinced a respectable capacity to move with dispatch, which left us uneasy at the prospect of carrying him for any distance on a leaf, the edge of which would necessarily abut our very own tender flesh. However, just in time we had yet another Ingenious Idea, and found a rolled up sort of last year’s leaf, into which we wedged him, and walked to the very nearest satisfactory blackberry blossom, setting him on the petal, as seen in the very first photograph at the top, if you look very, very closely.

You might need to click on the picture to enlarge it. Or a magnifying glass. Or simply a leap of faith.

In truth the photograph does not quite capture the magic of the previous occasion, the gentle bouncing of the blackberry blossom not being a capacity of still photography to display, and our role-playing Bumblebee not sitting quite where we recall the other one to have done, but both we and the bee were, we believe, gratified. He, for his part, certainly made haste to avail himself of the blossom’s nectar, nigh unto burying himself in the blossom’s tiny bush of little pistils and stamens and antlers and potholes, and we, of course, had a photograph to accompany the (sort of) haiku.

We were hoping this performance would so restore him he would then be capable of flight (we preferred it be a direction other than our own) but he still did not appear to have the necessary wherewithal to take off. We pondered a bit about the pointlessness of wishing there were such a thing as a bee veterinarian (a beeterinarian?), and watched him tumble gently from blossom to blossom, righting himself each time with a little shake of his furry abdomen, but clearly it would take more than a little nectar and a Starring Role to restore him to his former mobility.

Then, Karma the Beloved Dog, nipped our heel in some frustration, so we thanked the Bumblebee for his stage services (we were remiss in checking whether he was a member of the Screen Actors’ Guild), and wished him well.

Be well, dear Bee.

A Tale of Two Kings

In our walks in the Northwest Woods we have encountered quite a number of delightful personages (although we hesitate to anthropomorphize any more than we have already done, and prefer the term, arborescences) but none took us by quite so much surprise as King Edward VII, as pictured above.

Very well, to be precise, the above illustration is not of the King himself, but the flowering shrub named in his honor, Ribes sanguineum, or King Edward VII Flowering Currant, pink variety.

It was a fortuitous encounter since, until that moment, we had believed that the only King of the Forest was the hapless fellow pictured below.



Here is his story.

The King of the Forest had stood at the highest point of the Northwest Woods, tall upon the particular slope of woods of which he was King. He was vastly proud, and partly for good reason. He was the tallest of the many trees in the Northwest Woods, and he was quite old and wide of trunk, though not The Oldest, nor Largest, nor Wisest (this was Ancestor Tree’s distinction). Still, for a while, the King ruled, and took great pleasure in his superiority.

His tree subjects down below him grew and sometimes even flourished in his company. Many of his subjects believed that his tall, strong trunk provided protection against the powerful storms that now and then struck the Northwest Woods, and even though there were trees who grumbled that he took up a disproportionate share of the sun and water and nutrients in their forest, mostly his subjects just hoped to make do themselves and grow to their fullest.

The King, actually, paid very little attention to what his subjects thought, mostly because he didn’t have to. Kings of that sort (and others less blue-blooded) tend to live in their own little worlds, and it usually doesn’t much matter to them what others think.

Time, however, has a mind of its own, and one day, assailed by a Storm unlike any other that had descended upon the Northwest Woods, the King was utterly uprooted and blown over.

As he fell, he crashed upon his tree subjects below, which in turn caused them to fall, and they in turn crashed upon others, until the entire kingdom was uprooted and the slope was nothing but broken, battered trunks, piled atop each other.



We cannot help but wonder if perhaps the King had lived among his subjects, rather than above and apart from them, he would not have destroyed them all when he fell, but that is for those wiser than we to say. Certainly he could have benefited from the example of King Edward VII, after whom the Edwardian period is named and who is pictured most charmingly below as a young boy.



It turns out this Edward VII was quite the dashing figure, having romanced many of the most prominent lovelies of the time, and more importantly, having been (haplessly, as it turns out) so committed to preventing World War I that he was called the "Peacemaker," thereby proving that "Make love, not war" has been espoused much longer than we assumed.

Incidentally, for all of you whose appendix (the non-literary sort) has been removed, it turns out you have none other than Edward VII to thank. The good King was stricken with appendicitis two days before his marriage to the lovely (but evidently insufficient) Princess Alexandra of Denmark (see picture below).


and was among the first beneficiaries of surgery for the condition (the medical one, not the marital). At that time appendicitis was not treated surgically and was frequently fatal, but his surgeon, Sir. Frederick Treves, made a small incision and successfully drained Edward's appendix, forging the way for future treatment.

Now that we think about it, for that bit of trivia we probably have more reason to thank his surgeon than Edward himself (thereby making it a bit of Treve-ia, we wonder?).

As a final tribute to a figure we have otherwise lived a lifetime ignorant of, but whom we now admire considerably, those of us who are musicians of a Marxist bent will appreciate that he was a founder of the Royal College of Music, affirming, "Class can no longer stand apart from class ... I claim for music that it produces that union of feeling which I much desire to promote."

We think our heretofore King of the Forest might have learned wisely from this sentiment, were he so disposed.